


Sacrifice

by TheStudyInRed



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Catholic Matt Murdock, Emotional Hurt, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt Matt Murdock, Minor Frank Castle/Karen Page
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 04:33:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12856830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStudyInRed/pseuds/TheStudyInRed
Summary: Frank Castle is finished with one war, but instead of jumping headfirst into another, he chooses to pay respects to a friend he lost in a different war. Only this one isn't all that dead.(ONESHOT)





	Sacrifice

Homeland gave up the ghost, same as everybody else. No one was looking for him, and he didn't want to be looked for. It nestled in his bones the same way it had the last time a war ended, and with more dead. 

 

Scrappy motels, he didn't mind, but bargaining the sandman for sleep was hard and with his body so tired, he was desperate. David sent him a message before he braved the foggy morning, a ‘be careful’ with a silent ‘thank you’ between the letters and a sandwich. He didn't reply. Although they'd agreed that dead men didn't make for good company, even to each other, he knew that they would cross paths. He'd seen it before. The sandwich was tucked into his coat as he braved the sidewalks, wet from last night's rain.

 

He knew she'd have work that morning, and he didn't call for that reason, though the wilting flowers in her window had him wanting to. She didn't know yet, how things had turned out for him. He had a feeling, though, like the last time a war ended. She'd known he was alive, even if she swore he was dead to her. 

 

So Frank Castle, encased in leather and lead, went to church. A man cloaked in black, moved through sacred ground like Death to collect, armed with demons of gunpowder instead of a scythe. He hadn’t been to St. Matthew’s since his youngest son was christened, and it hit him like some kind of emaciated spell, tore at him to look down the rows of pews at the altar. He could hear the baby crying in his head, loud and distressed. 

 

He tugged his hood further forward around his face, tried to soften the sounds of his boots on the floor but since his fight with Russo, his leg hadn't healed the way he'd like. He sat in the pew to the very back, to the very left, and clenched his hands to fists in his pockets to keep them from shaking. 

 

Frank wished he knew where to go to remember him, try to pay the respect he had. He had considered the cemetery, where he'd almost bled out and talked to him about being a soldier without a war. Red didn't let him die - not there. Not yet. The only common point he could think of was here, in this church. A common point established while he was fishing into Frank’s background, chained to a chimney. He didn't make the connection until well after their last encounter that the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was his lawyer. He had been further south when the freak earthquake rattled the concrete jungle to its core, and when he returned to learn the truth, he did what he could to rebuild. Construction work was simple, but he'd known before he sat down that this would be difficult. 

 

He scanned the room for priests, and found the place empty. Dry as a bone and smelling like mothballs. His gaze settled on the cross at the front of the room, and his rough voice, thick from the silence of the past few days, was lower to his own ears. “Never thought you'd go before me, Red...I don't have any flowers or good news. War outside still rages, but damn, has it gotten bad while you've been gone. I-I’ll do what I can, because that's all I’m good for. Your girl Karen, she, uh…”

 

Frank's throat choked him, closed in like it was full of wax. “She said there should be a time when I'm not fighting, and...I think she was meaning a little of that for you too, before what happened with you. She wanted you and me to stop doing what we need to do, even though we're the only ones that can do it. You and I never saw eye to eye on methods, but I think we do on that. We can't stop this. We can't let it go.”

 

“You once said I could walk away, and I turned it back on you. I think we both knew, Red. I think we both knew then what we do now,” He nipped at the inside of his lower lip, and his trigger finger scratched against his palm. “We can't stop this until we're made to stop. As long as I'm breathing, every fuckface that crosses paths with me is a dead man walking. And you...You weren't a marine, but you died like one. Protecting, defending. Honor intact. Cops won't acknowledge you because you were a vigilante but everybody in this hellhole knows who the Devil is, and he's the guy that saved this goddamn city. They treat you like a martyr. You should be on these walls.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “I’ll take care of shit for you. Don’t worry, I’ll...I’ll look after this city. Won’t matter how long, I’ll do it. I’ll look after everybody, even if the job takes me elsewhere, I’ve got you. Your lawyer buddy and Karen and...the others.” 

 

Trigger finger went still when he heard the footsteps. Bare feet on cold ground, from the church kitchens and with a bad limp on the right leg like his. Frank pulled his hood around his face, moved to get up, but the footsteps were just on the threshold that connected the church to the kitchens. 

 

He left the pew and was sliding out when he heard the voice. 

 

“Frank?” 

 

He stopped, straightened, and turned, hoping that he was right. He had seen dead men return from the grave so many times, had done it himself so many times, even when the permanence of death was so obvious to him he wondered. He wondered about the lawyer. The blind lawyer from Hell’s Kitchen that did his damndest to fit a square peg in a round hole, and when Frank’s eyes found the battered and beaten face of Matthew Murdock, he waited until the lawyer spoke again to believe it. 

 

“Frank? I-I thought I heard...Frank, is that you?” Matt tilted his head, trying to get a lay of the room. Frank had always likened it to the instruments ship captains used to navigate storms, even when any rogue wave would pull them under. 

 

Frank stepped to the aisle in front of him, his mouth dry and his eyes wide. “Red. You’re...not dead.” 

 

The edge of a smile curled the lawyer’s mouth, and he shifted in his oversize sweatshirt, his hand on the back of the pew when he neared. “You’d said you would see me around. Didn’t realize it wouldn’t be...till after I’d died.” 

 

“You heard…” Frank had forgotten who he was speaking to. “‘Course you heard. Murdock, what-” 

 

Matt crossed the short space to put his arms around Frank, and words were thrown into the Punisher’s ears while he froze. 

 

“They won’t let me leave.” 


End file.
